Rhythm
by Devilish Kurumi
Summary: Cid has trouble staying in the rhythm. PostAC, a little fluff, some motherly!Tifa, and light Valenwind. Rated for like two swear words. Not even really romance, but there's no good genres.


A/N: I've had the first bit of this fic running through my head for a long fucking time, but I finally got around to writing it just now. It kind of spawned. Luckily, this is a complete piece, so I don't have to worry about finishing it. Long live Valenwind.

* * *

Tifa sighs and heads upstairs, ignoring for a moment the calls for her to come back down, "join the party, princess!" She smiles and shakes her head, looking back down to see Reno grinning up at her with this catty expression on his face. She knows better – he knows better. She isn't interested in him, and he has a different interest all together. 

Right now, she's more worried about the sudden disappearance of one Cid Highwind. The pilot had asked where the "goddamned _clean_ bathrooms" were, and so she had directed him to her room – the first door on the left. That had been nearly an hour and a half ago, and while no one else seemed to notice his absence, Tifa had.

She's a little worried for the man – he was so tired and out of breath after the fight with Behemoth, unlike the Cid she knew from two years ago. It might have had something to do with Shera's leaving Rocket Town for Cosmo Canyon, insisting that she needed to learn, not live alone in the house while Cid went off to fight dragons. The young woman understands the other woman's need for escape, and doesn't blame her in the slightest, but Cid seemed to take it a little harder than he probably thought he would. She laughs, wondering if it was more the fact that he'd have to do housework now, rather than the idea of his assistant leaving him for "bigger and better things."

The door to her room is half-open and so she enters, looking around in confusion. The lights hadn't been off when she left the room a few hours ago...

Cid is laying on his side, half curled on the bed. His boots are on the floor next to the footboard, and the blanket – which she hadn't straightened out that morning – is laying in a crumpled heap at the very edge of the bed, dangerously close to falling off. The pilot is snoring softly, and his face is a lot softer than it normally is.

Tifa smiles again and puts her hands on her hips, looking at the man for a long moment. He had always been the one who would stay up latest, and now she supposes his all-nighters have finally caught up with him. He looks a lot better when he's sleeping – healthier.

She gently reaches over and straightens the tangled blanket out, pulling it over her friend. The pilot shifts and groans, eyes opening a little, only to blink closed again. "Huh... Tif'? Wh' happened?"

"You fell asleep," she tells him honestly, smiling at him.

"Oh, shit," he mumbles, and starts to shift into a sitting position. "Sorry, didn't mean t'-"

"Cid," she scolds softly, "Lay back down and go to sleep. I'm probably not going to need the bed for a long while, and you look like you need it."

He blinks blearily at her, but allows the martial artist to push him back down into the bed. He sighs. "Sorry."

"It's okay. Everyone's tired. Goodnight, Cid."

"Mm... g'night, Tif'." She turns to go and Cid mumbles suddenly, "...Thanks."

"It's nothing, Cid. See you in the morning."

The pilot listens to the door creak shut and the handle squeak back into place, and then closes his eyes, listening to the muted thumping underneath him from the party. He feels so goddamned old. He can't even fucking keep up with everyone anymore. Then again, Barrett's older than him by a good few years... That only depresses him further – he should be able to outlast the big fucker.

The thumping bass sounds like a heartbeat. Thump-tha-thump. Thump-tha-thump. Exactly like what his heart is beating. Thump-tha-thump. He wonders how long it will last. His back hurts. Thump-tha-thump. He regulates his breathing and concentrates on the bass, desperately. Thump-tha-thump-tha-thump-tha-thump.

Everything goes in rhythm.

He hopes he's in rhythm too.

The bed shifts, creaks under the weight of a new occupant, and this jars Cid's body, sending him into a dismally useless state of complete awareness, where everything comes leaking back into him like a broken water pipe. His back still hurts. So does his shoulders – the aches are spreading because he hasn't been working out like he should.

There's a sigh and he hears two shoes hit the ground – thunk thunk – and the sound of clasps being undone, of thick fabric falling to the ground. For some reason when the person lays next to him he doesn't feel warmth. He finally decides to open his eyes, only to see a mass of tangled black hair, slightly greasy and definitely in need of a wash.

"Vin?"

The gunman shifts and rolls over, looking at the pilot sleepily. He's on top of the blankets, Cid notes.

"Wh're y'doin'?"

"Trying to sleep," the scrawny, pale man responds, "The party is winding down and I have no plans on leaving when I'm exhausted."

The idea of Vincent Valentine, renowned for being the insomniac of the group, trying to sleep kind of makes Cid laugh. He chuckles just a little and then sighs. "You too?"

"I _am_ older than both you and Barrett," the gunman sighs. "Let me sleep, please."

"Sorry. Didn't mean t' harass you."

"You're not harassing me," Vincent mumbles, "I'm just tired. Forgive me for disturbing you – this is the only bed not being used by anyone completely repulsive."

"What about Tifa?" Cid asks, blinking. This is her bed, she should be in it, not them.

"Downstairs. She won't be coming up, I don't think. There's a cot in the attic that I normally use, but..."

The pilot notes that the gunman is shifting uncomfortably.

"It's cold up there," he finally mutters, looking embarrassed. "If you're uncomfortable with me sleeping here, I'll do that."

"Nah," Cid shrugs as best he can, "I'm fine. Goddamn, if you're cold, there's blanket. Come on," the pilot sighs, "I don't give a shit."

"...Sorry," Vincent apologizes again, even as he moves to get the blanket over him instead of under him. He does it without moving the pilot much more than when he sat down the first time. He doesn't have enough weight to do anything heavy.

"You need to eat more," Cid grumbles, rolling over and wincing when his back protests to the movement.

"I need to do many things."

The two are quiet and the bass has died down, so Cid has nothing to time his breathing to. He tries to remember the beat. Tha-thump-tha-thump? Thump-tha-thump-tha-thump-thump-thump-thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump-

"Cid." Vincent's face comes into view but he's blurred out, like an old movie. He can't stop breathing, not for Vincent, not for anyone. "Cid, you're hyperventilating."

Thumpthumpthump.

"Calm down," the gunman says in that completely calm, steady voice, "Slow down."

He won't stop breathing, he can't stop breathing, is the man insane?

"Slowly, come on. Wait a few seconds between breaths." Vincent puts a cool hand against Cid's chest – it's cool to the touch and one finger taps out a slow rhythm against his ribcage.

Thump-tha-thump.

Cid times his breathing along with the other's hand and manages to get the rhythm right.

"Are you alright?" Vincent asks, looking down at the other in complete worry. It's the first real emotion Cid's seen on the other's face, even after two years.

"...dunno," Cid rasps, "Never done that before."

"It happens," Vincent mumbles quietly, removing his hand from the other's chest. "Anxiety."

"Yeah."

Vincent touches his shoulder and asks, "Are you alright?" again but this time he really _means_ it.

Cid looks at the old movie Vincent, with slightly blurry edges and this weird, soft look on his face that he only sees because everything else is smoothed over. He's got the same look on his face as Shera did a year and a half ago when she came into his room in the middle of the night, just because she _felt_ something was wrong, only to find him in a half ball trying to slow down but going too fast for anyone to keep up with. The same look she had the time after when he was under the Tiny Bronco, staring at the ground which was all blurry then too, trying to lay down without messing up any of his tools or parts. Time after that, when she had come in to find him taking deep breaths, the look was faded around the edges. By the time she had left the look was gone.

"..I don't know," he mumbles. He had lied to the gunman and that makes him feel shitty – real shitty, because he doesn't lie to Vincent. He shouldn't, at least, because Vincent's never lied to him – whatever he's said has been the truth. "...Happens a lot."

"You have frequent attacks?"

Cid shrugs uneasily – they're not _attacks_, they're just minor setbacks. Sometimes his body tries to fix something, bring everything up to speed, only to get the speed itself all messed up so it really just fucks him up more. "Sometimes I get out of the rhythm," he rasps.

"There's no rhythm to get out of," Vincent responds. He doesn't know how the pilot will take this so he adds, "You're in it now. Just memorize it."

"Try. Doesn't work, I forget."

Vincent looks around and then lays his head against the other's chest. "In... Out. One, two... three, four." He keeps the beat for Cid, trying to memorize it himself so he can do repairs whenever Cid's body decides to inadvertently fuck shit up.

Thump-tha...thump-tha. He tries it. It works. He memorizes it to the best of his abilities and puts a hand in Vincent's tangled, dirty hair because he wants to actually _remember_ it this time and Vincent's soft "One, two... three, four" is really helping.

The gunman shifts and pulls himself back up to lay down correctly. Cid tries to keep the beat on his own and has it, off a little.

Vincent puts his real hand around Cid's wrist, thumb resting on the pulse and Cid rolls onto his side, staring at the blurry, old-movie Vincent. Only he's not so old-movie anymore; he's less blurry and more real-time, real life. In the rhythm.

Thump-tha...thump-tha. Vincent mumbles, "One, two... three, four," and Cid nods sleepily, closing his eyes and curling in a little because otherwise his chest might have to exert more pressure, that will send his gauges all awry and make him flip out on Vincent again. The gunman puts a hand to the pilot's hair and mutters that he needs a shower – Cid says maybe he does but so does Vincent.

His body does it's routine and keeps the beat, and Vincent helps the repairs along by counting out slowly, letting Cid fall asleep first before drifting out himself, resting on a steady "one, two...thump-tha" beat.

Both are in the rhythm.

* * *

Let the beat hit you. 


End file.
